


Help for the Lost

by robotfvckers



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-10-11 23:14:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10476720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robotfvckers/pseuds/robotfvckers
Summary: Two shambali monks find the lone, wandering Hanzo.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this [amazing Samurai Jack art](http://thegreatermassofdicks.tumblr.com/post/158695342714/all-this-samurai-jack-porn-and-hardly-any-of-it), I couldn’t help but think of the boys. Sorry, [thegreatermassofdicks](http://thegreatermassofdicks.tumblr.com/). Your art is beautiful and I used it for evil.

Hanzo doesn’t care where he goes. He takes only what he can carry: a spare set of clothes, a few days’ rations, Storm Bow, a jug of sake. He stares at his feet while he walks, glinting in the low light of nearby street lights, gone before most in his gumi awaken, sneaking easily past the watch.

He has already made an obscene spectacle of himself. Only now does he realize when he sank his blade through his brother’s chest that he struck the final blow upon his own soul in turn. He needs no other grandiose display, vapid and pompous in the name of his clan. 

Hanzo flees, shameful and disgraced, as befitting a man who slew his own brother.

–

He does not think of where he goes. He stares down the tiled path, asphalt, gravel, stone, dirt. He looks up. Day. He eats. He sleeps only when he can walk no further. Night. There are no more monumental buildings. The landscape is open, rolling, but he pays no notice. When his food runs out, he lets the pain naw at his stomach like rats upon garbage. His narrowed vision swims. Hanzo works when he can, steals when the villages peter into shacks and there is no work to be found, and it pummels him as much as anything through the despondent fog. Sin piled upon sin, another weight upon his sunken body. 

He doesn’t know how much time passes in this haze. Each land is a dreamscape. He imagines wisps of vibrant green at the corner of his eye, sees sparrows, collects their feathers in his gi, but when he looks for them his pockets are empty. Memories. Hallucinations. Nightmares.

He breathes, and his spirit leaves him. The dragons are silent. He is nothing.

–

Hanzo opens his eyes. He feels warm. There’s sensation at his mouth. Wetness. He tenses, and a soft, low shush catches in his ears. A hand rests against his hairline, caressing with great care.

He blinks and stares into stark blue eyes. A man. At least, he thinks it’s a man. He’s beautiful, with high cheekbones, shaven pate and stark, symmetrical jieba. Hanzo tilts his head, tracking the motion of a withdrawing bottle that had balanced at his lips. A doppleganger, he thinks, but at second glance he realizes his error. Though they both share jieba, the second man is younger, darker-skinned, with round bone structure, eyes amber and curious. Not quite brothers.

Hanzo struggles to sit up. The eldest does little but plant a long hand between his shoulder blades to support him, though as soon as the dizziness subsides Hanzo shifts out of reach.

“Please, do not move so soon. We found you collapsed in the forest.” The younger says in surprisingly deep timbre, eyes scanning Hanzo’s face as if reading a book, worry wizening him beyond his years.

“You are safe. You can rest for as long as you require.” The elder says, slow and practiced, as if reciting scripture.

Hanzo glances between them. Monks, fully ordained. They would not kill him, perhaps. Not that it matters, though he feels foolish for being found in such a state. 

Only now does Hanzo realize he is missing his clothes, bound securely in borrowed robes with nothing beneath.

“My possessions?” Hanzo asks evenly, face settling into an arrogant mask he cannot shake, no matter how much time passes.

“Be at ease. They are here.”  The younger gestures to his pack, half-concealed by a large chest in the small room. The space is tight, peppered with stunted candles and a low ceiling: a borrowed place, but comfortable. “Your clothes are drying outside by the fire.”

“Perhaps introductions will bring you peace. I am Tekhartha Mondatta.” He gestures with upturned palm at his companion. “He is brother Zenyatta. We are shambali.” 

The name sounds familiar, and Hanzo hides his disdain as best he can. He has never taken to religion, and old, spiritual anecdotes have lead his family to ruin. Still, it is his own burden, and they showed kindness when he was weak.

“Hanzo.” He offers, several heartbeats too late, but neither seem to mind.

“A fine name.” The younger pipes, smiling with bright, even teeth. “Please, Hanzo, eat with us. Rest a while.”

Hanzo wants to decline. They are strangers. He has never been good with people. That was always Genji’s strength. 

He clenches his fist in the soft fabric at his thigh, alien against his body. His fingernails are clean, the muck of travel scrubbed away. They had cleaned him. He does not remember it. The fine hairs along his arms prickle, nipples peaking, and he feels their gazes upon him, blue and gold. He swallows thickly, still in need of water. Of food. He’s not sure he has the strength to leave. And he is so _tired_.

He nods at his strange company. They both smile, one bright, one beautiful, and Hanzo’s frown tightens.

–

They share food and blessings in the light of the fire and the setting sun. The meal is plain mushroom congee, but the first bite of warm food has Hanzo eating as quickly as politeness allows. The monks talk of their surroundings. The weather. The rapidly appearing stars. They do not ask Hanzo questions, at least not anything of great import. They sit close to one another, closer than is proper, Hanzo thinks, but it is not his business. With each passing minute the air cools. Hanzo huddles closer to the fire.

They ask him to journey with them. The journey to enlightenment leads all on unknown paths, they say, as if sharing an old, fondly remembered joke. The rejection is behind his teeth until he sees how open and hopeful they both are. Like they want him here. If only they knew.

–

Hanzo stirs. He blinks through the gloom, tightens his hold on the threadbare blanket tucked beneath his chin. The faint glow of moonshine trickles in from the small slatted window above him. On his side, he can’t see his companions, but he can hear them.

He doesn’t mean to listen, but Hanzo can’t ignore the soft, gentle smack of lips on skin. One gasps, quiet and low. His ears burn, shame settling in his stomach like a stone when his whole body heats at their quiet undulations. Eventually they sigh in unison, breathing gone even. Silence. 

Hanzo stays awake until the moon sets, balanced on knife’s edge, finally, _finally_  slithering his hand beneath his newly laundered underclothes, teeth grit so hard his head pulses with it. He grasps his aching cock, brings himself off as quickly and quietly as he can, thinking of their soft, loving whispers and gentle caresses while he catches his spend in his palm, smearing it against his blanket with instant, muted distaste.

–

They eat. Sleep. Explore the forest. Hanzo shows them how to hunt, wielding Storm Bow like an extension of his own body. He feels proud in those moments, the excitement of the kill warding off all else as he nocks his arrow and sends it soaring. They in turn show him how to forage, point out the variance in color, the subtle smells that mark food from poison. 

The brothers spar daily, their bodies twisting in sync in ways that only life long partners can. They meditate too, sitting so still that Hanzo cannot track the rise and fall of their chests.

He joins them, one night, like this, the light of the fire casting the brothers in warm oranges and reds. It has been many years since he has attempted meditation, and it does not come easily. Too many emotions, his sins, choke peace from his mind. 

Afterwards, they spar. The monks move against one other, blows blurring like a dance.

“Hanzo.” Zenyatta says, after a few rounds. He smiles, extending his hand to the man seated in seiza, watching them both. “Would you care for a match?”

The question throws him, always a passive audience to their nimble, deadly displays. He nods, an old arrogance bubbling in his chest. He wonders if he can still excel at hand to hand like he used to, when he was a different man.

After the fourth defeat, Hanzo calls it quits, body heaving and heart thundering in his chest. Mondatta pins him with a hand at this throat, thighs flexing around his waist. He weighs nothing at all, but he defeats Hanzo as easily as breathing.

“I yield.” Hanzo murmurs, staring up at Mondatta, flushed and panting with exertion. Mondatta’s eyes shine, less of an entity reciting platitudes and passages in that moment; Hanzo witnesses the hot-blooded human beneath a god’s mask.

That night, draining the last of his sake, he tells them of his sin. He is a murderer, a coward, who slew his brother to maintain order. He expects hesitation, pity, condemnation; he wants them to shun him, send him away so he can wander, freed from this strange new burden. They offer none of those things.

“Your grief means that you are not lost, Hanzo. You still have good within you.”

His eyes burn, weak from drink. He squeezes his calloused palm over his face. The tears track down his cheeks, catching in his unkempt beard. He does not deserve the relief. Everything he has ever done has been for his family. But he knows it is not true.  Hanzo remembers the first time his brother gurgled in his mother’s arms, reached a tiny hand for him. 

_That is your anija, Genji. He will always protect you._

Hanzo wails, doubling over. He feels their hands at his back, covering him like a shield. They coax him back up again, wrap him in their arms while he shakes and hurts and _hurts_  while the fragmented memories bombard him with monumental force, wave after wave, stabbing him through with remorse and longing.

–

He wakes the next morning, head throbbing and shame threading into his groggy, muddled thoughts. When he opens his eyes, he realizes the monks are curled tight to either side, hands woven over his body, holding him close.

–

Hanzo means to leave when his strength returns. Bad weather stops him once. Then they find a village plagued by marauders, and he cannot leave the monks to solve this problem on their own. They celebrate that night, and Hanzo drinks to the tune of the villagers’ drunken singing.

The dim burn of alcohol reminds him of Genji, and the tight, poisonous sadness trickles into him like a glass beneath a dripping tap. He retires early, but the monks do not let him go alone.

The din of the party retreats behind the closed door of their shared quarters. The room is cosy, well furnished and warm with a fireplace chasing away the cold. The soft glow reminds Hanzo of the first night, the soft, rustling noises of his companions finding pleasure in each other.

Hanzo is not drunk enough for the memories to leave him unaffected. He swallows, looks between them as they stop outside arm’s reach.

“You did not have to stay.” Zenyatta says, stepping close; their thighs almost brush. It happens, dreamlike, in fluid motion. Zenyatta cups his face, hands warm and rough and gentle. “Yet,” his golden eyes flicker to Hanzo’s lips. “Here you are.”

Hanzo balks, eyes catching Mondatta’s just as Zenyatta’s lips press against his, chaste, simple. He gasps against the kiss, whole body rigid, twitches a fraction to displace him, though the monk does not relent. Instead, his other hand frames his face, cradling him so tenderly. The pressure grows, soft lips shifting against his in a hot slide when Zenyatta angles his face, the kiss deepening with a practiced grace that dizzies him. Hanzo grasps Zenyatta’s forearms, pinning him in place, keeping him at bay. The monk tastes like plum wine.

Zenyatta recedes, a breathless, clipped chuckle ghosting over his lips.

He feels unraveled between them, laid bare. Mondatta’s eyes peer at him from over Zenyatta’s shoulder, too close. He is not sure when the other had moved.

“I…do not understand.” Hanzo says, brows drawn tight in confusion. “You are both…”

“Monks?” Mondatta smiles, amusement mapped in the fine lines at the edge of his eyes.

“Together.” Hanzo finishes with a bite. He worries his lip, sensitive from the kiss. They both smile in unison, and Hanzo glowers.

“Affection should not be so closed or heavy.” Mondatta murmurs while Zenyatta presses close, nose bumping along the column of Hanzo’s throat. He steels himself for the inevitable: Mondatta’s lips, just as soft, on his own, his elegant hand balanced on the wanderer’s shoulder. His kiss is less chaste, tongue dipping between his lips while Hanzo moans from the teeth at his throat, locking along his pulsepoint and sucking marks into his skin.

Mondatta drinks his whimpers, his hurt, needy sounds; Zenyatta’s hands skirt down his chest, tracing his tattoo, fingertips teasing past his nipple, hard and peaked from the touch. A tongue at his collarbone, lips, teeth, building in intensity.

The elder monk nudges his thigh between Hanzo’s legs. Zenyatta’s fingers pinch his nipple, grasp the thick muscles of his chest. Hanzo groans, twisting away from the kiss, sucking in air, fisting one hand in Mondatta’s kasaya while the other curls behind Zenyatta’s neck. The leg between his own brushes against his cock, rigid on his thigh, and the sensation burns all the way up to his ears.

“I..I do not…” Hanzo starts, squeezing his eyes shut, legs buckling. Hands at his back, his waist hold him steady, lead him to the bed.

“Please, Hanzo, let us take care of you.” Zenyatta whispers into his ear, tugging the sash of his robes, unwrapping Hanzo like a treasure.

He wants them with a ferocity he has not felt in years, before duty and despair struck such things from his life. Their gentle touches, their soft requests tear through his self-loathing, ignite the desire that planted its seeds from the first time he had laid eyes on them.

His old demons, doubt and unworthiness, are worked away by smart, knowing hands, mapping paths up his inner thighs, palming at the outline of his cock, fabric dampened and hot.

They descend upon him like men starved, Hanzo’s robes hanging off his body, muscled legs parted and quivering as they peel him out of his clothes. Zenyatta kisses the heaving planes of his stomach, knicks at Hanzo’s hip while his hand balances against his thigh. Mondatta watches them both with hungry eyes. Zenyatta finally grasps Hanzo’s leaking cock, angry and red in his dark hands.

Hanzo jerks, gasps, sinks his teeth into his own hand as he balances precariously on his other elbow, watching in disbelief as Zenyatta catches his tongue against his cock, pink and glistening. He sucks with no pretense, gold eyes locking with Hanzo’s while Mondatta kisses against his thigh, nuzzles against his swollen, tightening balls before he’s licking too, working him to pieces with another set of otherworldly eyes upon him.

He can do little but shake apart in their grip, Zenyatta hollowing his cheeks, attentive when Hanzo thrashes at being teased right beneath his glans, works him over and over until Hanzo tastes blood on his tongue.

“Let us hear you.” Mondatta says before dipping his tongue at the base of Hanzo’s cock where Zenyatta hasn’t yet delved, catching at the other’s mouth. Zenyatta moans around him, withdraws with a wet pop to capture his brother’s lips. They kiss deep, Hanzo catching flashes of their tongues, Zenyatta biting at the edge of his lips as he acquiesces with a hidden smile. Hanzo has no time to be jealous when Mondatta takes his turn, hot mouth sinking down to the base of Hanzo’s cock, throat pulsing around him with perfect, silken heat.

Hanzo yells, hand scrabbling at the back of Mondatta’s shaved head for purchase. The monk _swallows_  around him, fucks his mouth down and doesn’t pull up more than halfway before taking him fully again. 

“He is very good at this.” Zenyatta says, voice rough with lust. Hanzo moans in response, unable to do anything but fight the undeniable pulse of orgasm he’s barreling towards. He wants to watch, stare at this holy man, his companion, take every inch with pleasure, but the sight will undo him. Hanzo tosses his head back, throat bulging as swears into his own shoulder.

He feels something wet and slick at the curve of his balls, then lower, lower. A blunt finger presses at his ass, teases around his hole, but Hanzo cannot voice his worry, not with Mondatta using his mouth in earnest. He withdraws to breathe once, twists his tongue around the head, dipping into his slit with greedy intent before sucking deep. Every clever stroke of lips and tongue unbalance Hanzo, pleasure teetering on an impossible edge.

A strange, unknown pressure: wiggling, slightly cool before warming quick with rhythmic, questing presses. No one has ever touched him there before, never dreamed to do it himself. Hanzo’s hips catch, legs spreading wide to take more. 

He feels a second finger slip inside, scissoring, curling, a hot spark of want rips through his spine, shakes a moan from deep in his chest.

“You are doing so well, Hanzo.”  Zenyatta says, weaves his free hand with Hanzo’s own. 

Hanzo squeezes hard enough to whiten his knuckles when Zenyatta grinds against that spot inside him, and he can’t stay still, not with Mondatta’s mouth, Zenyatta’s fingers, and the genuine, hot praise buzzing between his ears. 

He tries to warn them, but a long, broken whine bubbles forth instead, mindless, breaking on a shout as those pistoning fingers speed and Mondatta sinks deep and holds, sucking hard, throat convulsing while Hanzo comes, vision blackening. The pleasure fizzles, expands, his whole body thrashing, fingers digging crescent moon marks in the monks’ flesh.

Mondatta withdraws, eyes smoldering with lust, swollen mouth gasping as Zenyatta’s fingers continue to move, milking Hanzo, keeping steady streams of spend catching against his brother’s lips, painting them shiny and pearlescent.

“N-no more.” Hanzo manages, voice near unrecognizable, gravel-rough. Zenyatta kisses his captured hand and slips out of him. Hanzo watches Zenyatta stare between his legs, the exact moment his mouth goes slack, eyes half-mast and dark.

Zenyatta crawls up his body in an instant, captures Hanzo’s lips. A moment of hesitance passes before Hanzo kisses him hard, claiming dominance as best he can, slow and shaky with his orgasm glowing in his mind. The monk jerks above him, hips swiveling, then there’s skin against skin, Zenyatta’s cock a long, hot line against the hollow of his hip. He whines into Hanzo’s mouth, breaking off to gasp against his neck.

“M-mondatta. Hurry.”

Hanzo stares down the line of Zenyatta’s body to find the other slipping between Zenyatta’s legs. Hanzo watches, enraptured, as the man shaking in his arms angles his hips back, fucking into two, then three fingers, hot little moans in the language the brothers share when they talk into the night.

Mondatta parts his robes with one hand while he works sweet sounds from his brother, smiling, watching them both through dark eyelashes. Mondatta takes himself in hand, long and beautiful like the rest of him, and Hanzo groans, own dick twitching against his stomach as Mondatta grinds between the cleft of Zenyatta’s cheeks.

“Please, brother.” Zenyatta cries, hands locked on Hanzo’s shoulders, breath fluttering against his ear, pressing his head down, arching his back in a sinuous line, begging for it.

Mondatta coats himself with slick, slides inside in one long push. Zenyatta whimpers, catching Hanzo’s lips again, mindless as Mondatta fucks, swift and brutal, inside him. Zenyatta’s dick grinds against Hanzo’s own, and before long he aches against his own stomach again, dicks catching against one another. Hanzo thinks of how sweetly he was prepared, how he yearns to be filled, but to ask, to admit it outloud, is impossible. 

Mondatta grasps Zenyatta’s hips with both hands, draping over him, eyes locking with Hanzo’s while he fucks the man between him. The intensity of that gaze forces his hands between their bodies, Hanzo curling his fist around their cocks, Zenyatta wailing, Mondatta’s pace quickening, staggering the litany of gasps and sweet promises pouring from his brother’s mouth as he spills his seed on Hanzo’s stomach, Mondatta following not long after with a stuttering swear of his own.

Zenyatta jerks back against his brother, works every last drop from his own body while he can. Mondatta withdraws with a hiss, chest heaving, robes loosened from the rigorous movement. Zenyatta kisses Hanzo again, lips smacking quietly until he curls against Hanzo’s side, exposing their mess to Mondatta. The elder hums, a mischievous note, so similar to Zenyatta. The younger monk catches Hanzo’s flushed, unspent cock in his hands, mouths the wanderer’s neck and works another toe-curling orgasm from him with a few, practiced jerks of his hand, butting his thumb behind Hanzo’s glans until he’s forced to bat the hand away.

“Sensitive.” The younger monk says, hoarse, appreciative. Loving.

They clean quickly with a dampened cloth passed between them, the monks settling on either side of Hanzo, familiar, frightening.

Hanzo finds he doesn’t mind so much, and, for once, sleeps peacefully.

**Author's Note:**

> For more fic and prompt requests, I'm on [tumblr](https://robotfvckers.tumblr.com).


End file.
